Bestie and I continued our St. Patty's Day tradition of going to Shenanigans in Ocean City, MD. Hubby did not go along as someone had to stay and take care of the Boy and the Girl. To be sure, you might think I'm a wee selfish for skedaddling and leaving Hubby with a toddler and an infant, but he bore the task heroically. AND I GOT TO SLEEP FOR EIGHT CONSECUTIVE HOURS FOR THE FIRST TIME IN SIX MONTHS. Glory and hallelujah. Of course, I was about to burst when I woke up at 8:30 a.m., but a quick pas de deux with my hand pump relieved me.
Back to our St. Patty's Day experiences... Since we were without male accompaniment in an Irish dive bar, we were on the receiving end of some flirtatious behavior. I think. It's been awhile, so I can't be sure. When a fella stops to inquire about your necklace, though, then continues to chat with you about your Irish heritage, it could be that he's looking to suss out your dating status. And when he flaunts his claddagh ring, worn in a consipicous way, well, that more or less seals the deal. So there was Claddagh guy. There was also We're-Stuck-Trying-To-Walk-Past-the-Bar Guy, Kilt Guy, and Older-Huggy Guy. All of this while the live music pounded our chests like a bodhrán.
Oh, how I pine for the days of dating. Yeah, right. All in all, we really did have loads of fun. And pancakes and bacon the next morning. And an afternoon of shopping. C'mon, you know you're jealous.
Meanwhile, in another memory...
When I was ten years old, I stopped by the camera store that my Dad's managed since 1970-something. It wasn't Take Your Daughters to Work Day or anything progressive like that. It's just that the store was situated halfway between my elementary school and my house, so it was no big effort to drop in and say "hello." Ooh, and it was a Thursday. That meant that there were tasty snacks in the back office. Mmm...sticky buns, poundcake, muffins. How I loved Thursday.
So there I was, munching on a sticky bun, and one of Dad's regular customers bellied up to the counter. Dad, always the social butterfly, introduced the little ragamuffin next to him (ahem, me) as his daughter. Tragically shy as I was, I think I just smiled at him through the pecans and sugar. That's when he said something that struck me as pretty odd:
"She's beautiful. She has the map of Ireland all over her face."
My ten-year-old self smiled and nodded, and my Dad thanked the customer. But I was thinking, "What does that mean? Do I have lines running around my face? Does my face call to mind green pastures? Or famine walls?"
Okay, okay, I wasn't that thick-headed. I knew that it meant that I looked like some kind of Platonic ideal of Irish, with my (then) wavy reddish-blonde hair, freckles, and dimples. The Catholic schoolgirl jumper probably didn't hurt either.
The weird thing is that I happen to look a lot like my mother, who's all kinds of German. Go figure.
And thus we conclude my memory dump of the day.
Back to our St. Patty's Day experiences... Since we were without male accompaniment in an Irish dive bar, we were on the receiving end of some flirtatious behavior. I think. It's been awhile, so I can't be sure. When a fella stops to inquire about your necklace, though, then continues to chat with you about your Irish heritage, it could be that he's looking to suss out your dating status. And when he flaunts his claddagh ring, worn in a consipicous way, well, that more or less seals the deal. So there was Claddagh guy. There was also We're-Stuck-Trying-To-Walk-Past-the-Bar Guy, Kilt Guy, and Older-Huggy Guy. All of this while the live music pounded our chests like a bodhrán.
Oh, how I pine for the days of dating. Yeah, right. All in all, we really did have loads of fun. And pancakes and bacon the next morning. And an afternoon of shopping. C'mon, you know you're jealous.
Meanwhile, in another memory...
When I was ten years old, I stopped by the camera store that my Dad's managed since 1970-something. It wasn't Take Your Daughters to Work Day or anything progressive like that. It's just that the store was situated halfway between my elementary school and my house, so it was no big effort to drop in and say "hello." Ooh, and it was a Thursday. That meant that there were tasty snacks in the back office. Mmm...sticky buns, poundcake, muffins. How I loved Thursday.
So there I was, munching on a sticky bun, and one of Dad's regular customers bellied up to the counter. Dad, always the social butterfly, introduced the little ragamuffin next to him (ahem, me) as his daughter. Tragically shy as I was, I think I just smiled at him through the pecans and sugar. That's when he said something that struck me as pretty odd:
"She's beautiful. She has the map of Ireland all over her face."
My ten-year-old self smiled and nodded, and my Dad thanked the customer. But I was thinking, "What does that mean? Do I have lines running around my face? Does my face call to mind green pastures? Or famine walls?"
Okay, okay, I wasn't that thick-headed. I knew that it meant that I looked like some kind of Platonic ideal of Irish, with my (then) wavy reddish-blonde hair, freckles, and dimples. The Catholic schoolgirl jumper probably didn't hurt either.
The weird thing is that I happen to look a lot like my mother, who's all kinds of German. Go figure.
And thus we conclude my memory dump of the day.
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